it’s all my delirium

𝜗𝜚⋆ Broken Promises

| Authors Note! hiya!! this is a little mean at the begining.. there's missed expectations, emotional fallout and peter being an idiot. there will be fluff at the end trust. anyways enjoy <3

pairing : mcu peter parker x reader

genre : angst - fluff

warnings : emotional angst, miscommunication, neglect in a relationship, crying, hurt/comfort, temporary breakup

word count : 310K words

The apartment smells like buttercream frosting and the strawberry candles MJ brought over three hours ago, the ones she'd shoved into your hands with a flat "Happy birthday, don't make it weird." Streamers in dusty rose and gold curl from the ceiling fan that nobody can figure out how to turn off, so they flutter in lazy spirals above the kitchen island where a two-tier cake sits with your name piped across it in crooked purple letters. Ned's handwriting. He'd been so proud of it he took eleven photos from different angles.

Your phone screen stays dark on the counter.

"Okay, but I'm just saying—" Flash leans against the fridge in a jacket that costs more than your rent, one hand wrapped around a red Solo cup filled with what he swears is "artisanal punch" but is absolutely just Sprite and grenadine. His jaw is sharper than it was in high school, cheekbones catching the warm overhead light, hair gelled into that effortful-effortless swoop he's been perfecting since sophomore year. "—if Parker can't even show up on time to a birthday, how's he gonna handle, like, a mortgage? I'm just being realistic."

God, I'm so good at reading rooms. Somebody should be filming this.

"Flash." MJ doesn't look up from the book she's reading on your couchThe Bluest Eye, dog-eared to death, her dark curls falling across one sharp cheekbone. She's wearing an oversized flannel that swallows her narrow shoulders, legs tucked underneath her, and her voice carries the energy of someone who has been waiting for this exact disaster since breakfast. "Shut up."

He's not coming. I knew he wasn't coming. I should've said something this morning.

"No, no, he has a point," says Betty Brant from the folding chair near the window, and Ned physically winces from across the room.

Ned, sweet, broad-shouldered, nervous Ned, stands by the Bluetooth speaker with his phone in both hands with so much attention, thumb hovering over Peter's contact. His round face is doing that thing where he smiles with his mouth but his eyebrows betray absolute panic. He's wearing the birthday-party Hawaiian shirt, the one with little pineapples, stretched tight across his chest and belly.

Pick up pick up pick up pick up. Dude, PICK UP.

"He said he was coming," Ned announces to no one in particular. Third time in twenty minutes. "He literally texted me at four. He said, and I quote, 'Leaving soon.'"

"It's almost eight, Ned." Your voice comes out steadier than your hands. You set down the stack of paper plates. little holographic ones, because you'd thought they were fun when you picked them out last week. They catch the light and throw tiny rainbows across your fingers. Your nails are freshly done, a light baby pink. You'd gotten them done specifically because Peter once said he liked that color on you, offhand, months ago, and you'd remembered.

He couldn't remember today.

The playlist Ned built shuffles to something upbeat and it feels like a slap.

You pick your phone up. Lock screen: a photo of both you and Peter holding hands in Central Park, October light making everything amber. No new messages. You'd texted him at noon. At two.

At five-fifteen, a simple "Hey, don't forget tonight :)" with the smiley face because you didn't want to sound desperate, even though your chest was already tightening.

Read at 5:16 PM.

"I'm gonna—" You gesture vaguely toward the bathroom. "One sec."

The bathroom is small. Lavender hand soap, a crack in the mirror that's been there since move-in, and the muffled bass of whatever song is playing through the thin door. You grip the edge of the sink. The porcelain is cold and your knuckles go white around it.

He promised.

You'd reminded him two weeks ago. Then again last Monday. Then a sticky note on his backpack, an actual, physical sticky note, hot pink, with a little doodle of a cake on it. He'd laughed and kissed the top of your head and said, "Babe, I'm not gonna forget."

Your reflection stares back at you. The outfit you spent forty-five minutes picking, a light pink strapless dress that matches your nails and that sits just right against your collarbones, and the heeled wedges you can't really afford, all of it suddenly feels like a costume for a show nobody's watching.

You don't cry. Not yet.

When you come back out, MJ's eyes flick to yours for exactly one second. That's all she needs.

Yeah. She's not okay.

Flash is telling a story about his Audi and no one is listening. Background noise: someone's phone buzzing on the counter, the clatter of ice in a glass, Betty laughing politely at something, the fan clicking on every third rotation.

Eight o'clock.

Eight-thirty.

Ned stops checking his phone and starts cutting cake with the grim focus of a field medic performing triage. He plates a slice and brings it to you with both hands, like an offering. "It's really good. I used, um, I used the Swiss meringue buttercream this time. Not the American. There's a difference. The Swiss is—"

"Oh, I'm not hungry." You say rushed. He insists. You take it. You don't eat it.

Nine o'clock. People start doing that thing where they check their phones and mention early mornings.

Nine-fifteen. Betty hugs you goodbye. Flash salutes, which is bizarre, and then pauses at the door.

"For what it's worth," he says, and his voice does something unexpected, drops low, almost gentle, entirely un-Flash, "you look really pretty tonight. And Parker's an idiot."

Okay that was smooth. That was actually smooth. I should be a life coach.

He leaves. MJ squeezes your shoulder on her way out, no words, her grip firm and dry. Ned lingers the longest, hovering near the door with his jacket half-on, mouth opening and closing.

"I can stay—"

"Go home, Ned. It's fine."

It is not fine.

The door clicks shut.

You stand in your apartment with gold streamers and a half-eaten cake and a playlist still going and the cinnamon candles burned down to stubs, wax pooling on the saucers. The smell has gone from warm to cloying. You blow them out one by one.

Your phone lights up at 11:48 PM.

Peter: oh my god Peter: oh my god oh my god Peter: sweetheart Peter: I'm coming right now Peter: I am SO sorry Peter: please don't be asleep

The buzzer goes off at 12:03 AM. You press the intercom without saying anything.

His footsteps in the hallway are fast, stumbling, and when you open the door Peter Parker is standing there looking like he lost a fight with the entire city. His brown hair is a wreck, curling in every direction, damp at the temples like he ran here. There's a scratch on his jaw he'll claim is from "a shelf" later. His hoodie is inside-out. Literally inside-out, the seams showing, the tag flapping against his collarbone. Those warm brown eyes, usually so steady, so soft, are wide and wet and terrified.

He's holding bodega flowers. Cellophane-wrapped carnations, half-crushed, obviously grabbed in a sprint. One of them is missing its head entirely.

She's going to kill me. She should kill me. I deserve to be killed. Is she—oh no. Oh no, she's been crying.

"Happy birthday," he breathes, and the words come out like an apology and a prayer stitched together.

You look at him.

You look at the decapitated carnation.

Something inside you, the thing that held all night, through Flash's commentary and Ned's cake and MJ's knowing glances and the bathroom mirror—cracks clean open.

"You forgot." It comes out quiet. Worse than yelling. "You actually forgot."

"I didn't—I got caught up with, there was a," His hands are shaking around the flowers. He steps forward and you step back and his face crumbles. "Baby, please, I know—"

"I reminded you seven times, Peter." Your voice splinters. Tears are falling now and you hate them, you hate every single one, warm and fast down your cheeks, dripping off your jaw onto the collarbone where the cropped top sits.

"I put a sticky note on your bag. A sticky note. Like you were a child. And you still—" A breath that sounds like it's been ripped out of you. "Everyone was here. Flash was here. Flash showed up to my birthday before you did. Do you understand how—" You press both hands over your eyes because looking at him hurts. "Do you understand how humiliating that is?"

He's standing in the doorway and his arms drop to his sides. The flowers hang limp in his fist, cellophane crinkling.

"I know," he whispers.

"You don't." You wipe your face with the back of your hand, mascara smearing across your knuckle. "Because if you knew, you would've been here. You would've," Your voice breaks entirely. What comes out next is small, fractured, barely a sentence: "I just wanted you here."

Peter's eyes are red. His throat bobs. He reaches for you.

"Don't." You pull your arms against your chest. "I think… I think you should go."

"No. No no no, wait."

"Peter. Go home."

"Can we just talk,"

"I don't want to talk to you right now." You say it to the floor. To the holographic paper plates stacked on the counter. To the cake with your name on it. "I don't think I want to talk to you for a while."

The silence that follows is worse than anything.

Peter Parker leaves your apartment at 12:11 AM on October 15th, still holding the crushed flowers, and the door shuts with a sound so soft it might as well be a gunshot.

He texts every day.

Not desperate essays. Not paragraphs. Just:

Peter: I'm sorry. Peter: I hope you ate breakfast. Peter: I'm so sorry.

You read every single one. You reply to none.

MJ brings you soup on Tuesday. She sits on your bed and reads aloud from her book while you lie face-down on a pillow and pretend you're not crying. She doesn't comment on the crying. She just reads. Her voice is low, steady, and she smells like eucalyptus shampoo and the library.

Ned calls on Thursday. "I'm not, like, taking sides," he says, "but he hasn't slept. Like at all. He's doing that thing where he sits on the ceiling and just… stares. It's really unsettling, actually."

"Good," you say, and then feel terrible, and then feel angry that you feel terrible.

A package arrives at your door. No note. Inside: a first edition of your favorite book, the spine slightly cracked from use, a pressed flower tucked between pages 113 and 114. You know Peter's been scouring every used bookstore in the five boroughs because Ned accidentally let it slip during a phone call he didn't realize was basically a hostage negotiation.

You put it on your shelf.

You don't text him.

Peter: I found that coffee place you mentioned in August. The one with the oat milk lavender thing. It's really good. You were right. Peter: You're always right. Peter: I miss you so much I can't breathe sometimes.

You stare at that last one for forty minutes in the dark of your bedroom, the screen light making your eyes ache, the sheets smelling like the detergent you both use, same brand, because you'd started buying the same one without discussing it, just one of those things couples do when they've grown into each other's routines. And now the smell of your own laundry makes your chest cave in.

Then Flash, of all people, DMs you on Instagram.

@flashthompson: okay I know this is weird but Parker literally showed up at my apartment to ask me what your favorite flowers are. YOUR flowers. He asked ME. I've never seen a man so down bad in my life. It was honestly disturbing. Anyway it's lillies right

You: How do you know that?

@flashthompson: you posted a story in june with lillies and the caption "obsessed" and I have a very good memory

@flashthompson: don't make it weird

You almost smile. Almost.

Peter shows up at the coffee shop where you study on a rainy Wednesday. You don't know how he knew you'd be there, Ned, probably, the world's worst double agent. You're tucked in the corner booth, laptop open, cold brew sweating a ring onto the wooden table, and the smell of espresso grounds and rain-wet pavement drifts from the propped-open door. You look up and he's just standing there by the register, soaked through his jacket, hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping from his jaw to his collar.

He looks thinner. Circles under his eyes dark enough to bruise, purple-brown, stark against his skin. His hands are stuffed in his jacket pockets and his shoulders hunch inward like he's bracing for impact.

He's here. Okay. Okay. Don't cry. Do NOT cry in a coffee shop. Be normal. Be a normal person.

He doesn't come to your table. He orders at the counter, quiet, and then walks over holding a cup, not for himself. Oat milk lavender latte.

He sets it down in front of you without a word.

Then he turns and walks right back out into the rain.

You watch the door swing shut behind him. The barista, a girl with blue hair and a nose ring, glances between you and the door and says, "Honey, whoever that is, he tipped forty percent and he looked like he was going to a funeral."

The latte is perfect.

You cry into it a little.

He sends a handwritten letter. Actual pen on actual paper, slid under your door. His handwriting is terrible, always has been, all sharp angles and inconsistent sizing, like a doctor raised by architects. But he tried. The paper smells faintly of his apartment, that specific blend of cheap bodywash and old wood and the faint metallic tang you've never been able to identify.

You read it sitting on the kitchen floor with your back against the cabinet.

I know I can't explain without telling you everything, and I know that's not fair. But I need you to know that there has never been a single second where you weren't the most important thing in my life. I just haven't been acting like it. And that's on me. All of it.

You reminded me seven times. I know. I counted after. I went back through every text and I counted and I felt sick.

I don't want you to forgive me because I showed up with flowers or books or coffee. I want you to forgive me because I'm going to be different. I'm going to be the person you already thought I was when you put that sticky note on my bag. The one with the little cake drawing. I kept it. It's on my wall.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I'm sorry I made you feel like that wasn't enough to remember a date.

— Peter

P.S. Flash says hi. I can't believe I'm at the point in my life where Flash Thompson is my emotional advisor. This is rock bottom.

You laugh. It's wet and shaky and it surprises you.

You pick up your phone.

You: Come over.

He's at your door in nine minutes. You know because you count.

When you open it, he's standing there in a clean hoodie, right-side-out this time, holding a bouquet of pale pink peonies wrapped in brown paper. His eyes are red-rimmed. His lip is bitten raw. He smells like rain again, and bodywash, and something warm underneath that's just him, that specific Peter-smell you've been missing like a phantom limb.

She opened the door. She opened the door. Okay. Okay. Don't mess this up. Don't—

"Hi," he says.

"Hi."

Neither of you moves for a long, terrible, beautiful second.

"I read your letter," you say. Your voice is hoarse from three weeks of not using it enough.

His mouth twitches.

"And you misspelled 'remember.'"

"I know that."

"And you told Flash Thompson about our problems, which means I'll never hear the end of it."

"Yeah, that…" He exhales a sound caught between a laugh and a sob. "That was a low point."

You look at the lillies. At his bitten lip. At the circles under his eyes that tell you he hasn't been sleeping, that Ned wasn't exaggerating, that Peter Parker has spent twenty-six days drowning in the absence of you.

"Get in here."

He steps through the door and you reach for his collar and pull him down into you and his arms wrap around your waist so tight your feet leave the floor, actually leave the floor, heels lifting clean off the hardwood, and the lillies get crushed between your bodies, petals pressing soft and cool against your arm. His face buries into your neck and his breath comes out shuddering and hot against your skin. You feel the dampness of his lashes against your throat.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into your collarbone. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

You thread your fingers into his damp hair, those ridiculous curls, still cold from the rain, and hold on. The apartment smells like cinnamon again because you bought new candles without admitting to yourself why. His arms tighten. Your toes brush the floor. The lillies shed petals down your hip, pale pink falling soft onto the wood below, and Peter Parker presses his mouth to the curve of your shoulder and breathes you in like he's been holding his breath for a month.

You tilt his face up with both hands, thumbs tracing the bruised skin beneath his eyes, and kiss him, slow, salt-tinged, his lower lip trembling against yours. His hands slide to the small of your back and press you flush against his chest and a sound escapes him, low and cracked, somewhere between relief and grief, muffled against your mouth.

When you pull back, his forehead drops against yours. His nose bumps your nose. His eyes are closed and wet.

"I heard you tipped forty percent at that coffee shop," you murmur.

Peter chokes out a laugh, broken and gorgeous. "He told you about that?"

"He screenshots everything."

Peter groans and pulls you tighter, burying his smile into your hair, and you let him, fingers curling into the back of his hoodie as the ruined lillies scatter their petals across the entryway floor.

I’m done || Peter parker

Summary: Peter hasn’t been showing up for y/n, one day when the bell rings she tries to tell him but he’s in a rush. Then he comes to her house later on in the night and they argue. A few things were said but when peter goes “i’m done”; Y/n starts to panic…

The bell rang, sharp and loud, but you barely moved.

Students flooded out of the classroom in noisy waves, laughter and chatter filling the hallway—but you stayed by your desk, watching Peter.

He was already halfway to the door.

Of course he was.

“Peter,” you called, grabbing your bag and hurrying after him.

He turned, a little startled, like he hadn’t expected you to follow. “Oh—hey. Sorry, I was just—”

“In a rush?” you finished flatly.

He winced slightly. “Yeah. I mean—kind of.”

You stared at him for a moment, searching his face. He looked tired. Distracted. Like his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Not with you.

“Can we hang out today?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. “After school. Just for a bit.”

There was a pause.

A small one.

But it was enough.

“I can’t,” he said.

Your stomach sank. “You didn’t even think about it.”

“I did—”

“No, you didn’t,” you cut in, shaking your head. “You just said no. Like always.”

“It’s not like that,” he said quickly. “I just have stuff I need to do.”

“There’s always ‘stuff,’ Peter,” you said, frustration creeping into your voice. “Every day. Every time I ask.”

“I’m trying—”

“You’re not trying!” you snapped. A few people nearby turned their heads. You didn’t care. “You disappear in the middle of conversations, you bail on plans, you don’t even walk me home anymore—”

“I said I’m sorry!”

“And I said I just want to spend time with you!” Your voice cracked slightly. “Why is that so hard?”

He looked torn. Guilty. But still—

“I don’t have a choice,” he said.

That did it.

You let out a hollow laugh. “You always have a choice. You just don’t pick me.”

His expression shifted—hurt flashing across his face—but you were already stepping back.

“Forget it,” you muttered. “I’m done asking.”

MJ slid up beside you like she’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“You coming?” she asked casually, though her eyes flicked toward Peter with quiet understanding.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice tight. “Let’s go.”

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t walk home with him.

Again.

The walk felt longer without him. Colder. Even with MJ beside you, talking about something random to distract you, your mind kept drifting.

To him.

To how things used to be.

To how easy it had been.

By the time you got home, the weight in your chest felt unbearable.

You barely made it to your room before it hit you.

You dropped your bag, kicked your shoes off, and collapsed onto your bed.

And then you cried.

It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t controlled. It was the kind of crying that made your chest ache, your breathing uneven, your thoughts spiraling.

“I just wanted one day…” you whispered into your pillow.

One day where he chose you first.

It was late when you heard it.

A soft tap against your window.

You froze.

Another tap.

You already knew.

You sat up slowly, wiping your face with the sleeve of your hoodie before walking over and pulling the window open.

Peter climbed in carefully, like always, landing softly on your floor.

“Hey,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

You just turned and walked back toward your bed, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

He lingered by the window for a second before stepping closer.

“I came as soon as I could,” he added.

Still nothing.

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “So… uh… how was your day?”

You turned sharply. “Are you serious right now?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re just going to act like nothing happened?”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are!” you snapped. “You do this every time, Peter! You disappear, and then you show up like everything’s fine!”

“I thought we could just talk—”

“We are talking!”

“Not like this!” he shot back, his voice rising.

The tension snapped.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said bitterly, “am I being too much? Is this inconvenient for you too?”

“That’s not what I said!”

“It’s what you do!” you fired back. “You make me feel like I don’t matter!”

His jaw tightened. “You think I want to be gone all the time?”

“I think you don’t care enough to stay!”

“That’s not fair!”

“Neither is being ignored by your boyfriend!”

Silence hit for half a second—

Then everything got worse.

“I’m doing the best I can!” he said, frustration spilling over.

“Well, it’s not good enough!” you shot back instantly.

The words hung there.

Heavy.

Sharp.

His expression changed—hurt flashing into something colder.

You immediately regretted it.

“I didn’t mean—”

He turned away, running a hand through his hair. “I need water.”

He walked out into the kitchen before you could stop him.

Your chest felt tight, guilt creeping in—but so did anger.

You followed him.

He stood at the counter, gripping the edge of it, a glass sitting untouched in front of him.

“I didn’t mean that,” you said, quieter now.

He let out a short, frustrated breath.

“I’m done.”

Everything stopped.

“…what?” you whispered.

But he had already turned, already heading back toward your room.

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

He’s breaking up with you.

The thought hit instantly. Completely.

You rushed after him.

“Peter—wait—what do you mean?” your voice cracked as you followed him inside.

He turned, confused. “What?”

“You said you’re done—” your breathing started to speed up, panic rising fast “—you can’t just say that, you don’t just—”

“I meant the argument—”

“I know I messed up, okay?!” you blurted out, tears already spilling again. “I didn’t mean what I said, I was just upset and I miss you and I feel like you’re slipping away from me and I—”

“Hey—hey, slow down—”

But you couldn’t.

Your breaths came too fast, uneven, shallow.

“I can’t do this if you’re going to leave,” you said, your voice breaking completely now. “I love you, Peter. I love you so much and it feels like you don’t want me anymore and I don’t know what I did wrong but I’ll fix it, I swear, just don’t—”

He froze.

Then immediately stepped forward, grabbing your arms gently.

“Hey. No. No, that’s not what I meant,” he said quickly. “I’m not breaking up with you.”

You shook your head, tears blurring everything. “You said you were done—”

“With the argument,” he said firmly. Softer. “Just the argument. Not you. Never you.”

You let out a sob, breathing still heavy.

He guided you to sit on the edge of your bed, kneeling in front of you.

“Look at me,” he said gently.

It took a second, but you did.

“I’m not leaving you,” he said again. “Okay? I got frustrated. I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breathing.

“Then why does it feel like you already have?” you whispered.

That hit him.

Hard.

His expression softened, guilt washing over him.

“I know I’ve been… gone,” he admitted quietly. “A lot. And I know it’s hurting you.”

“It is,” you said, your voice small now. “I feel like I’m not important anymore.”

“You are,” he said immediately. “You’re— you’re the most important person in my life.”

“Then why won’t you just be here, Petey?” you asked.

He hesitated.

That same hesitation.

That same wall.

“You don’t trust me,” you said softly.

“I do,” he said quickly. “I just—there are things I can’t explain.”

“That’s not fair,” you whispered. “You expect me to just accept that?”

“I’m trying to protect you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“From what?” you asked.

He didn’t answer.

Your chest tightened again, but this time slower. Sadder.

“I don’t need you to protect me from your life,” you said. “I just need to be part of it.”

Silence filled the room.

Then—

“I’m scared,” he admitted.

You blinked. “Of what?”

“Losing you,” he said.

Your expression softened.

“Then don’t push me away,” you whispered.

He nodded slightly, tightening his grip on your hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’ll try harder. I mean it.”

You studied him for a moment, searching his face.

“Okay,” you said finally. “But you have to actually show up, Peter.”

“I will,” he said.

There was a pause.

Then, quieter—

“I love you.”

Your throat tightened again, but this time the feeling was different.

“I love you too.”

He pulled you into a hug, careful at first—like he wasn’t sure if you’d pull away.

You didn’t.

You held onto him tightly, like if you let go, everything would fall apart again.

And maybe things still weren’t perfect.

Maybe there were still secrets, still distance, still things unsaid.

But in that moment—

peter's the one crawling into your lap this time, laying across you to slot his head in the middle of your chest. your hand finds a home in his hair and he exhales deeply. 'my head hurts.'

you pout, 'my handsome boy feels icky?'

he nods against you, 'so icky. i just want all the loves and cuddles from my dr. trouble.' he adjusts, relaxing deeper and settling into you like you're just one person. 'maybe she can prescribe me some kisses too.'

you don't say anything. 'dr. trouble? can i have a kissy perscription? at least a week's worth.' he waits, shifts to look at you, 'don't make me beg for-' your phone pointed directly at him. he sits up and reels himself backwards.

'i trusted you! that's doctor/patient confidentiality!'

you end the video and hide your phone. 'just for my eyes only. i promise.' peter's voice hitches, 'that's not how HIPPA works.' he holds his head in his hands, the quick movement made everything worse. you make grabby hands towards him, the instinct to care for him takes over.

'okay, fun's over. come here, dr. trouble prescribes cuddles, head scratches, and as many kisses you want.' he hesitates, you reach for him yourself and pull him in. 'i swear to the hippocratic oath. but only for you.'

avenger!peter parker x avenger! reader

summary: peter loses you on a mission, and it's worse than he could've imagined

wc: 3.5k

cw: body gore! mdni! i wanted to experiment with writing body horror, so it gets very graphic when detailing injuries/mutilation. there's no description of the actual events happening, just a lot of wording around the body designed to hopefully make you feel a bit squeamish!

if anyone wants, i'd love to do a part two with the medical-side juxtaposition as well, and give a sweet lil peter ending to turn this angst into fluff i fucking did and forgot to tag it! here it is!

masterlist and taglist!

peter shot one last web towards the wall, concluding his mural of men webbed along the hallway outside the security room. he gave himself a proud smile, admiring his work.

"you're telling me these guys are hydra? for a decades-long terrorist organization, they sure don't know how to train their front line very well."

you snickered beside him, sliding another bloodied man along the tiled floor to where you'd piled the others.

"i don't get why tony has us on security watch, this is light work. why even have me train under nat if i can't use my skills in practice? i wanna get my hands dirty, i wanna know what they aren't telling us." you kicked the foot of the man below you, turning to peter and giving him a frown. he offered you a knowing smile in return.

"yeah, i get what you mean. come on, lets just get in there and disable the security measures. then we can go back to the jet and try that chocolate i bought at the sokovian 7-eleven."

you grinned at him, heart swelling at the thought of some alone time with peter before the rest of the team was done.

"alright. you head in, i'm going to do one more sweep of the first floor while you're in there."

peter felt his senses go off for a second, a weird feeling in his chest. "i don't know, maybe we shouldn't split up."

you gave him a look. "what, you don't think i can handle myself? come on, you know we've cleared this floor already. plus, you've got like, three buttons to hit and we're home free, it won't be that long."

"yeah, but—"

"but nothing, spidey. come on, work your tech magic and meet me out here."

he let out a breath, shaking off whatever bad feeling was sitting in his stomach. "yeah, you're probably right. one sec,"

peter ducked into the security room, a dissonant beep ringing through the air as he held the keycard to the lock. the light flashed green and let him in. he laughed, "thanks bad guys!"

he heard you chuckle from down the hall as he made his way into the room, a smile on his face. he would never admit it to you, but he liked that you two were handed the short stick on missions. you were in and out, leaving time alone before the rest of the team came back, and he relished those moments more than any chance of glory.

he reached the switchboard, glancing at the monitors as he saw the rest of the team on the cameras making their rounds on various floors. "god we're so badass."

(y/n) was right: it was a matter of exactly three commands before he had the systems disabled. he heard tony through his comms,

"thanks, kid. now, do us all a favor and get yourself to the jet. this shouldn't take long."

peter smiled to himself, a feeling of accomplishment coursing through him. did he press literally there buttons? yes. but he pressed three buttons as an avenger. man, that would never grow old.

he heard commotion from down the hall and called out towards you. "alright (y/n), we've had our fun. stop messing with them and let's fuck up some chocolate, shall we?"

he was met with silence, his chest feeling tight again. "(y/n)?"

he took one step out of the room before his head was met with a metal fist, the CRACK of his own skull ringing through his ears before he lost consciousness.

tony jerked back as his hand repulsor let out a blast, sending the guy on steve's back to the ground with a heavy thud.

"mr. stark, both peter and (y/n) have gone unconscious." FRIDAY echoed through the suit. his blood ran cold.

"what?"

"both of them are in the building and their vitals are stable, however, they've both just lost consciousness within one minute of each other."

he felt his breathing pick up, his heartbeat commanding in his chest. he looked to steve and nat. "you guys good?"

nat threw a nasty headbutt, sending the agent in front of her collapsing to the ground. "go, tony."

he flew out without another word.

"FRIDAY, get me their most recent location."

"head to the security room, sir. take a left now."

tony reached the room in a matter of a minute, missiles out and on guard. he announced himself before storming the room, standing down once met with peter on the ground, no one else around him. he rushed out of his suit and to his side, shaking the boy relentlessly.

"kid, come on. wake up."

a few more desperate shakes and peter was gasping for air, fists flying and ready to fight.

"woah woah woah, hey— you're alright, you're okay. same sides, just me."

peter stalled his movements, taking a deep breath and allowing himself to grab ahold of his surroundings. he sat up slowly before immediately regretting it. man, did his head hurt.

"kid, you alright? you're bleeding. take of the mask, i need to see it." tony reached towards him, only to be swatted at.

"mr. stark, someone'll see!"

"kid, the floor is clear. i'm pretty sure you're responsible for that. jesus, how hard did you hit your head?" he pressed the spider emblem on peter's chest, revealing his blood-stained curls.

"pete, what the hell happened? for fucks sake, we need to get you out of here. FRIDAY, admister morphine."

"what? no, mr. stark don't— OW! mr. stark, what the hell??"

"kid, you're going to thank me in ten minutes. where's (y/n)?"

peter felt his mouth go dry. "w-what do you mean 'where's (y/n)''?"

tony's face fell. "shit. okay kid, let's get you to the jet. sam?" he called into his comms.

"yeah tony, what's up?"

"get down here, i need you to get eyes on (y/n)."

peter shot up instantly, his mask climbing back up his face. "no, mr. stark, really. i'm fine. i can feel it healing already, honest. i have to find (y/n)."

"we aren't having a discussion on this."

"you're right, we're not."

peter took off, flying down the hallway and out of sight before tony could even get back in his suit.

"karen, show me heat signatures."

the team searched for a while, leaving no one in their way untouched. the fight to find you was growing tireless, and the more time that passed without a trace of you led to more panic spreading amongst the team — peter worst of all.

he'd grown feral in his search for you, bloodying any body he encountered.

"kid, we should head back to the jet. we need to gameplan this." tony rang through his suit.

"no. mr stark, her tracker is still in the compound and she's close enough to read vitals on."

"pete, we—"

"she's in pain, mr. stark. i'm not leaving this building without her."

peter continued to search for hours, detailing every single room in the building. he spent the most time in the room your tracker had led him to, but helpless as he couldn't find you anywhere nearby. he had screamed your name for the majority of the search, his throat raw as his own healing couldn't even keep up with his efforts. he felt the blood warm on the back of his throat, accompanying the warm flood of tears down his cheeks.

"this is all my fault." he let out a horse whimper, bouncing his head up against the brick wall in front of him.

he felt hopeless. he felt like the world was crashing around him, a wretched feeling in his chest ripping him apart from the inside. this was all his fault, he didn't—

the bricks against his forehead ground against one another before shifting backwards, causing peter to jerk his head up. he stared wide eyed to a portion of the wall having fallen back as though on hinges, a long hallway now standing in front of him.

"a secret door. you're kidding." he breathed to himself. "mr. stark?"

"yeah, kid?" tony rang through.

"i found a door hidden in the wall right where (y/n)'s location is. i'm going in."

"i'll be there in 30 seconds."

peter sighed to himself before stepping his foot over the threshold and down the concrete-lined hallway.

"this would've been way cooler 5 hours ago."

tony landed in the room, eyes on the hole in the wall as he made his way down. he spotted peter ahead of him, not quite to the room at the other end.

"mr. stark, i have (y/n)'s heat signature in the room about twenty yards ahead. she's alive, but her vital signs are unstable. i'll prepare the jet for medical intervention." FRIDAY alerted.

tony gave a deep sigh as he approached peter, a hand falling on his chest and preventing him from walking any further.

"mr. stark, what are you— we have to go, sir!"

"kid, just wait a second. i need you to be prepared for anything, okay? they had (y/n) for almost five hours, and you know what we came here for originally. just, prepare yourself."

peter scowled, a look of of uncertainty overtaking his features as though he was at war with himself. he met tony's gaze. "this is all my fault."

"hey, pete. you know that's not true. you're lucky we aren't finding you in this room too."

peter took a shakey inhale, turning back to the opening of the cold room before them. "i'll feel lucky when i have her out of here."

and with that, peter ran. he navigated the room, desperately following your heat signature as tony focused on the agents and scientists in the room. he hoped peter was entirely focused on getting to you because he sure as hell wasn't following the "no-kill" rule this time around.

with everyone else taken care of, peter ran to the other end of the room where karen had traced you. and while tony had done his best, there was nothing peter could've done to prepare himself for what he saw.

you were on the concrete floor, clothes ripped and shivering from the frigid temperature of the room. your eyes were closed as you flinched from the noises around you, but it wasn't your demeanor that stopped him dead in his tracks.

there you laid, at complete mercy of those around you. thick tubes entered your body through your arms and chest, a viscous, black sludge coursing into you. it leaked out around the edges, your torn skin wet from not only the liquid but from the amount of blood lost as well.

the tubes protruded two from each forearm and one on either side of your collarbones, each breath stretching the skin around them and causing more tearing on your chest. peter could see the outline of the tubing in your arms, your skin bulging as the tubes fished themselves up to your biceps. the sight made him lightheaded, beginning to panic as he fought to believe what his eyes were showing him.

the scent of everything brought tears to his eyes, a sickly sweet smell in the air as your body fought hard to reject everything that was happening. it was foul, a putrid scent similar to that of rotten fruit flooding his nose and raising bile in his throat. had it been from the stench alone, peter would've thought you'd been dead for hours.

he took a step closer to you and there was a crunch underneath his right foot. he lifted it and looked down, confusion coating his features. and then, there was nothing but terror.

he leaned down to pick up a tooth, skimming the area to notice another few molars scattered around your limp body. his eyes met with the bloodied pair of pillars on the ground, giving new and nightmarish reasoning to your blood-soaked mouth. peter looked back up to you and felt his knees give out.

he crawled closer, not daring to touch you to make anything worse. now, he got a better look at your face, and he almost wished he hadn't.

blood pooled down your chin and dripped onto your chest, notably from the missing teeth and whatever else they'd done to you that peter couldn't see evidence of. you let out a cough, but it came out more as a gag, blood filling your mouth at a higher rate than your body could handle. you choked, new waves of red liquid spilling from your lips and splattering across your torso as you fought to breathe.

somehow it wasn't your mouth that made peter feel faint, however. it was your eyes.

your eyelids had been crudely sewn shut, crusted over and bloody. your soft lids were torn to shreds, the flesh ripped raw — no doubt from unconscious efforts to open your eyes.

you let out a ragged breath. "hello? w-who's there?"

peter watched your eyes move underneath the lids frantically, the movement only proving his assumption correct as he watched the skin pull against the thread, flesh tearing apart at the struggle.

"hey hey hey, stop moving, please. calm down, it's just me. it's peter,"

he couldn't help the quiver in his voice, his body betraying him as tears flooded down his cheeks under the mask.

"i'm going to get you out of here, okay? i-i just need you to trust me, okay? i'm gonna get you out of here, i promise."

you nodded, the minimal movement enough to elicit a sharp cry from deep in your throat. peter winced, placing a hand on your head and running his fingers through your hair, careful not to get too close to your eyes.

"pete, i-i, please, i don't..."

karen's voice pierced through his mask, drowing out your pleas. "peter, we're losing her. you need to get her to the jet immediately."

he couldn't breathe. his vision was going dark around the edges, panic overtaking him as his eyes racked over your body, desperately hoping this was all just a horrible nightmare. at some point, the rest of the team had joined in on the fight, the sounds of gunshots and violence fading to the background as a ringing pierced his ears. he didn't know what to do, he didn't—

"p-peter? are you still there?" your trembling voice drew him out of his haze. he watched again as you fought to open your eyes, face controting in pain as you pulled against the thread. he grabbed your hand in his, giving it the faintest squeeze.

"hey, hey i'm sorry, i'm right here. please stop moving your eyes, try to relax them for me. i'm so sorry, (y/n), i'm so sorry." the last part a whisper.

you turned your head towards his voice, tears slipping through the loops in the thread. it rewet the blood crusted around your eyes, the tears running down your cheeks a pinkish-red.

"they told me i saw too much."

peter felt his stomach turn at your words, intrusive thoughts of them holding you down and stitching your eyes shut plaguing his mind.

"i'm so sorry, i...

"peter, you need to act quickly. start by removing the tubes from her arms." karen rang through his suit again.

he shook off the thought, bringing his attention back to you. "i need to get these tubes out, okay?"

you choked out an "okay", more blood spilling from your lips as you spoke.

"don't talk, okay? i'm going to get you out of here. just stay awake for me, please. i'm just gonna..." he placed his hand on one of the tubes, nauseous at their size in his hand.

he held tight, the movement alone from his grasp being enough to earn a whine from you, incoherent pleas to stop escaping your lips.

he felt panic bubble in his throat again. "karen, please. how do i do this, i... i don't... i don't know what i'm doing."

"it doesn't seem as though the tubes in her arms are intertwined with anything. the best course of action may be to pull as quickly as possible,"

peter could taste the bile in the back of his mouth.

"the tubing is about two feet long, peter. you're going to want to pull quickly and pull a lot further out than you think."

he took a deep breath, summoning all the willpower he had left. "okay, i'm going to take these out, alright? i need you to brave for me, this isn't going to feel great."

you choked out another "okay" as peter tightened his grasp on the tubing. he gave himself a mental countdown, closing his eyes and pulling as hard and as quickly as he could.

the sounds that filled his ears made him wish to never hear again. you let out a blood-curdling scream that forced an echo through the concrete room, the rasp in your voice telling peter you'd been crying out like this for hours. it broke his heart to hear you in so much pain, but somehow your deafening anguish wasn't the worst part.

he could hear as the tubing left your body. the squelching noises of the plastic running through your flesh burned to his memory, one he knew would haunt him at night. you let out another roar as the tubing left your body and peter opened his eyes, immediately looking at the now-open wound in your forearm. he no longer had to worry about the noises haunting him.

the tubing had left a gaping hole in your arm, a dark red mixture of various liquids splattering out of you. he was quick to throw a web on it, stopping the flow for now. he looked at you, tears blurring his vision.

"i'm sorry," he cried, out, nearly choking on his own sobs. "i need to keep going, i'm so sorry."

he grabbed the next one, wasting no time pulling as hard as he could. this time, however, he made the mistake of keeping his eyes open. he watched as the tubing moved from under your skin as though a snake was slithering inside of you, the bulging in your arms pulsing and raising as peter moved. the tubing hit the ground with a thud, and the next thing you could hear was peter dry heaving.

he continued with the other arm, apologies on his lips as though he was pleading for his own life. they were drowned out by your screams, the rasp in your tone growing stronger each time as you lost your ability to speak. you could feel your throat ripping apart as you cried, even more blood running down to your stomach than before. you heard the sounds of peter's webshooters and felt two more cool sensations on your left arm.

"okay, we just need to get the ones in your chest, okay? we're almost done, (y/n), i promise,"

he took a step back to examine the two tubes left before a voice cut through his ears.

"peter, you can't pull on these two, they're too close to her heart. you're going to need to sever them and leave them in so they can be taken out surgically."

the thought brought another gag to his throat. he nodded silently, reaching down to the boot on your left foot where he knew you always had a back up dagger hidden. he let out a sigh of relief as he felt the metal against his masked fingers, pulling out the knife and bringing it towards your chest. he noticed as your ragged breathing picked up.

"peter? w-what are you doing with that? what's going on, please?"

"it's okay. i have to leave these ones in here, okay? i'm going to cut them and then we're going to go," he held a firm hand on one of the tubes.

"you're going to feel some pressure, okay? you're going to feel me cutting it, and it's going—"

"—peter, she's losing consciousness. you need to make the cuts now."

"okay! okay, i— fuck, okay."

peter began to saw at the tubing, the back-and-forth movement ripping at the skin around the edges. it pulled, blood and dark liquid splashing out on your bare clavicle and turning everything he saw red. he braced for your scream, but felt even more panicked when he didn't hear one.

"hey hey, hey please no. please, stay with me, please i'm trying. just please stay alive."

he finished off the final tube, again using his webbing to seal the open ends and prevent anything else from going in (or coming out). he wrapped his arms around your limp frame, beginning to lift you. his whole body shook, the weight of the situation sitting on him like nothing he'd ever felt before. he let out a cry that hurt his chest, using everything he had left to get back to his feet.

he had you. he had you, and everything was going to be fine, he just needed to—

"kid, grab on!" tony yelled as he flew past, signaling peter to web himself onto his suit. he did so, holding you tight in his arms as tony flew them outside and towards the jet.

they landed outside, his arms shaking violently as he rushed you over to bruce who was waiting at the glider entrance.

Pairing: Deaf!Peter Parker x Reader

Synopsis: after a friendship afflicted by mutual pinning, you make an unsuccessful attempt to become more

Masterlist

Staying friends is safe.

But he made it so hard.

It was the first nice weekend in New York, so your friend group was taking advantage and heading to a lake. MJ drove while you, Peter, and Ned crammed in the backseat of her car. Your knees were touching Peter’s from how full the backseat was, but you liked it that way. The passenger seat was full of towels, a cooler, and various recreational activities for your day at the lake. You stared at the way the wind from the open window lifted Peter’s hair off his face and felt an ache in your chest. Staying friends was safe. But did that mean you should?

“What were you thinking about?” You asked when Peter turned from the window to look at you.

“Seeing you in your bathing suit.” He signed back in response before pulling his shirt back and forth to fan himself, his way of saying you looked hot. You smacked his arm but couldn’t hide the smile that put on your face.